


Scarify

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Gen, I dont really mind!, I dont think this is really considered Stridercest, M/M, Strife gone wrong, but you can read it that way, or you can read it as bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strife gone sour springs Bro into action and triggers a reflection on the nature of parenting. </p>
<p>Inspired by a picture on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarify

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little thing I did that was inspired by this (http://madragingven.tumblr.com/post/29907499140/hard-lesson) image that I'm sure many of you have seen around. I really hope I did it a smidgen of justice, because it really is fantastic.

 

 

Accidents happen, you know that. 

You know that accidents are and have always been a big part of this whole parent-cum-brother scheme that you've got going on. The single thing that stuck with you when you rifled through that tattered Goodwill How-To guide on the ups and downs of parenting a handful of days after Dave had plummeted into your life was that being a good parent meant understanding your faults and accepting your mistakes and that you were never going to be perfect.  

The fact that your child-rearing credo consists of (among other things) three hearty helpings of General Tso's Leftover Multi-Purpose Medley and daily armed shit-beating sessions shows that you didn't learn all that much else from that book or from any conventional ideals of parenting but that bit that stuck always reminds you that hey, _shit happens_. Shit happened and shit happens and shit will happen. Dave's a resilient kid as far as you can tell and a couple of hiccups in the game of life won't completely capsize him.  

But you've also come to learn that accidents and the shit that follows them up doesn't just go away, doesn't just fade away, isn't just slurs and curses and cuts scrawled over in invisible ink. 

Nope, some accidents turn into wounds turn into thick and hard lessons roping over muscles and across skin. 

Today's impromptu "lesson" leaves Dave clinging to you like a koala mauled by developing deforestation; except instead of being shredded by teeth of a bulldozer he had instead been cut to the collarbone by the heavy edge of a lunge that went too far and a sword that swung too wide and a strike that came down too hard. A strike that sent his shitty slit of steel ringing from his hands and leaving Dave wide open to the arc of your momentum. 

The worst part was that you'd _felt_ it. Instead of the papery snip of skin you'd felt the thick weight of his meat as it _split._  

The rest of the time between you scooping him up off the roof and you kicking down the door to the bathroom is a strident smudge of shaded sweat. The only thing you remember is that there were no screams--or maybe your ears were just too full of buzzing blood to hear them right. 

Cal, who's been hanging on for dear life around your neck since your initially sprint from the rooftop finally slides to the floor when you enter the bathroom and you mentally promised to bleach the blood from his gloves later but right now Dave is begging your attention more.

Dave who meanwhile bites curses into your shoulder and digs vows into your back, red marks rubbing through the fabric of your polo, lines of promise and protest and _I'll do better I'll be stronger next time next time I'll be faster next time I swear_ until you silence him by setting him on the toilet and detangling yourself from his death-grip. 

Before he has a chance to latch onto the rim of the toilet and draw out the power of the freezing porcelain to keep him cool and calm and collected you grab his arms and work them out of his sleeves, pulling the stained shirt up over his head and tossing it into the sink next to the twin swords you must have grabbed up in the haze of your mad dash downstairs. You remembered the swords, you remembered the katana that'd cut Dave to the bone, _why had you remembered that---_

The pattern of tiles on the floor is dizzying as you rise with hand and mind flailing for the first aid kit and it seems to bend and warp and spin like some kind of optical illusion and the only thing pulling you out of the delusion and into action is the marred spots of blood smearing into your footprints--

\-- _Hey, what's black and white and red all over--_

__

Unfortunately there's no newspaper spread over the bathroom floor to bolster your weak attempt at a joke.

You pull the door to the mirrored medicine cabinet open quickly so you don't dwell too long on the reflection of a blond head drawn back and poured into agony and instead you focus on pulling out the first aid kit; leaving a trinity of smeared rust fingerprints across one side and then across your brow as you wipe the collecting sweat away. 

Dave's fingers are fisted tight, breaths coming short and curt between grinding teeth. He's trying so damn hard not to scream, not even gasp or sob but the brimming red in his eyes and cheeks shows you just how hard it is for him to keep up what you taught him, mind over matter, _if you don't mind it doesn't matter_ \--

You better hope he kicks the tears and screaming to the curb for now because that will royally fuck up what you have to do. You take off his glasses despite his protest, and even that dies anyway when you remove your own. He watches you as you crouch in between his legs, and you notice his left eye is _all_ red this time. Maybe something'd popped in there, or maybe it's just a fleck of blood swimming and spreading around in all his eye juice. Whatever it is it's going to have to wait until after you tend to the scooped out flesh on his collar. 

You've become pretty good at stitching wounds up--a technique perfected in the early days of teaching Dave to strife, when his hands were far too small and pudgy to properly grip the sword resulting in quite a few mistaken nicks and cuts on your palms whenever the shitty katana turned into a heavy projectile in untrained hands. 

You jerk the roll of toilet paper out until you have enough length to ball up into a suitably-sized wad. Dave bites hard onto your finger when you jam it into his mouth, and you deserve it even if you're doing nothing more than making for sure he doesn't gag on his own tongue. You grip his thigh and give it a hearty squeeze --kid needs to eat more, damn--before you let go with a pat. 

And as you prep the stitches and yourself and then thread through his skin with the half moon of your needle, as you listen to the moans and grunts that will inevitably build to screams, you can help but wonder how Dave will feel about all this once it's all over and done.  

Maybe he won't realize how much you fucked up. Maybe he'll take this as some kind of lesson, a new stage in the Strider Childrearing Regime. 10000 experience points, congrats but our prince is in another castle. Maybe he'll think your parenting program to be unorthodox, but still effective. Maybe he'll think this is some ploy to help make him stronger, ripped right out of the most stale of shonen story arcs. 

In the end, Dave cries, and you're not so sure whether he learned anything or not. 


End file.
